


Trio

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consent Obtained Under False Pretenses, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-17
Updated: 2004-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:11:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ways it didn't happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trio

**Author's Note:**

> The "things that never happened" idea has been wandering fandom for quite a while. It's basically an AU potpourri, so these are three separate vignettes. Got it? Good.
> 
> Caesia and Keladry helped.

[one]

 

James strips off his Quidditch robes, bright red with dark wet streaks. His face is flushed and laughing, bright-eyed, his ribs marked with yellowing bruises from where that Beater knocked him last week. Peter can smell the earth and grass and fresh sweat, and can't help looking at the way the veins stand out on James's arms when he tosses his robes in a crumpled ball onto his bed.

The three of them get dressed to go down to dinner, but Peter stays behind. He says he isn't done with his Potions essay and needs all the time he's got to work on it. Remus offers to help.

'Er... no,' Peter says. 'No thank you.'

As they leave, Remus gives him a funny little look out of the corner of his eye.

They head off down the corridor. Peter listens to the echoes: Shuffled footsteps, then racing ahead. Sirius barking out a laugh.

Peter sits cross-legged on his bed with his book and his parchment in his lap. The quiet of the room seems to come down around him, relaxing him, making him feel safe and sort of sleepy. He tries to concentrate on his essay. He _does_ try. But it's just so hard to focus. Ingredients and catalysts, stirring clockwise, counter-clockwise, dice this, stir that— He can hear muffled chortles from the second-years' dorm across the hall.

He sighs. His gaze drifts over to Sirius's bed, across the room. As usual, it's unmade and strewn with books and magazines. Peter gets up— just to stretch— and wanders over. Picks up a girlie magazine off Sirius's pillow. Throws a quick glance at the door. He flips through the pages curiously... he's seen most of this rubbish before, when James was showing it off to everyone. It _is_ rubbish. Some of the girls can't be much older than himself, and the looks on their faces...

He puts the magazine carefully back where he found it, and turns. James's robes are still lying on his bed. Peter sidles over and picks them up idly— still damp with sweat, and they smell of... oh.

What would it hurt, if he just—? They won't be back from dinner for another half an hour, at least. A simple spell will clean up the mess— they'll never know. He gets down on James's bed. Where he sleeps, where he lives, where he— Peter can't think it. He buries his face in the sharp fresh sweat of the bright red Quidditch robes— knees dug into the mattress, arse in the air, his hand down the front of his trousers—

The door clicks open. Peter freezes.

James's _face_.

*

 

[two]

 

James has his elbow propped up on the back of the sofa, absently chewing his thumbnail as he reads. Peter edges closer to him again, not quite touching, but close enough that James can feel his body heat. James glances at him. He thinks about telling Peter to shift over, stop crowding, and he would do if they weren't alone.

Instead, James puts his arm chummily around Peter and gives him a rough squeeze. Peter pulls his legs up and leans in closer, puts his head on James's shoulder. Peter can be that for him, he can be the baby brother, the little kid to be protected. Peter's good that way— he can be a bloke to cheer him on at the pitch, or someone to laugh at his jokes when Sirius is having one of his snotty days— anything at all that James might need.

'What's this bit mean?' Peter asks, pointing at it in his textbook with a frown.

James pushes up his glasses, and when he leans in to look, his cheek brushes against Peter's hair. Peter turns, and suddenly their faces are very close together. This close, Peter's eyes are hungry and worshipful, and James loves him for that— it comes up fierce and glorious inside like when the girls look at him, like when he makes a good joke. They're alone, and Peter can be whatever James wants.

The arm of the sofa is sort of awkward in the middle of James's back, and his trousers bunched up around his ankles are making his feet sweat. Peter's on all fours like when he's getting ready to transform and doesn't want to fall down. Peter's mouth is sloppy and eager on his cock, but when he lifts his arm to brace it on James's knee, his hand is shaking. His tongue is so much softer and lighter than James's hand, but it's hot and wet and James's balls are already getting tight. Peter clumsily puts all his weight on one side and reaches a trembling hand down to undo his own trousers.

James blows it in Peter's mouth. Peter coughs and can't swallow it all, letting it dribble onto the sofa between James's legs.

As James pulls his trousers back up, he really has no idea why Peter is giving him that strange, pleading look.

*

 

[three]

 

Lily's brush is on the far side of her candlestick, and she thinks that isn't where she left it. With a frown, she picks it up and runs her thumb through the bristles, pulling out the tangled strands. She rubs her fingers together over the trash basket, and her hair flutters away, pale red in the sunlight from the open window.

It's a month or two after that when she goes walking in the thick cover back by the far side of the lake, where James took her out for a picnic just before Easter. The smell of damp earth and sharp budding leaves puts her in mind of the smell of James when he got close to her, and the wet roughness of his lips against the corner of her mouth when she turned her head at the last second.

She stops in mid-step. She thought she heard a voice. Not speaking, but— calling out.

She creeps forward in what she thinks is the right direction, straining to hear. Draws her wand. Dry leaves crinkle under her trainers, and there it is again: A woman's cry. Young and anguished. Familiar. Lily moves forward again, heart beating fast, and rounds the huge tree that leads to the clearing where she's sure the voice came from—

And finds herself pointing her wand at James and herself and a pile of shed robes on a picnic blanket.

Her twin turns to see what James is staring at. Her red hair is sweaty, and she's wearing badly applied makeup. She doesn't try to cover her breasts, but brings her hand up to her mouth with curved fingers and terrified eyes.

'L— Lily,' she stammers, throwing a desperate glance across the clearing as if looking for somewhere to run.

James is breathing hard and his mouth is hanging open. It is smeared with red lipstick, and contains no words.


End file.
